


Deconstruction

by thecolourclear (afinch)



Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 13:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11059998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afinch/pseuds/thecolourclear
Summary: A blow job is not crass. It is not vulgar. It is not demeaning. A blow job is a work of art, deconstructed in stages. It is simple, yet complex; it is ordinary, yet beautiful.





	Deconstruction

Prelude 

A blow job is not crass. It is not vulgar. It is not demeaning. A blow job is a work of art, deconstructed in stages. It is simple, yet complex; it is ordinary, yet beautiful.

*

_It is dark- midnight blue on white canvass, and the shapes fumble around chairs in the darkness._

 

"Sam, for fuck's sake-"  
"Got it!" 

A shimmer of moonlight on the canvas- Sam has the flashlight. 

"Fuck," Toby says again, this time with feeling.

*

_That was the beginning, the first splashes of colour. What comes next is a second splash of, semi-predictably, red._

 

It doesn't take long for them to come up with a solution. It happened, simultaneously, for there are two zipper sounds, two steps out of work pants, and a crushing movement towards each other. Two strips of red, moving towards the center of the canvass.

A smash of lips on lips, tongues down throats, a muttered, "I'll go first."

*

_That was red. Deep blue has to come next, with smears of white. It makes the center of this canvas._

 

Sam falls onto the couch, Toby to his knees. Sam's cock throbs, the blue veins visible. It's wrapped in red, and there the canvas looks to be just a swirl of blue and red. But look closer; it is so much more than that. 

Toby's tongue swirls around the cock, sucking gently. Sam's hands lose themselves in Toby's freshly starched shirt, twisting crisp fabric around his fingers. Toby's hands started off on Sam's knees, but they slide as his mouth moves, down Sam's thighs, pressing them as far apart as they will go.

*

 

Here is where it falls apart. Here is where the most criticism of it not being art comes to play. "But it tastes like salt and it's _disgusting_ " you might say, but you miss the strokes, the tiny, delicate brush strokes, played in infinitely small detail on the canvass.

_Next, next is the climax, hidden in each tiny brush stroke, the colours blurring together in a fantastic display of swirls._

 

"Toby … " Sam says, desperate, warningly. 

Toby only murmurs, sucking greedily, until Sam's fists relax almost instantaneously; as Toby's hands grip the inside of Sam's thighs tightly; as Sam lets out a low guttural scream; as Toby's hands don't let up, not for a fraction of a second, not even after Sam is done and what he cannot swallow is leaking down his mouth.

"Toby," Sam says it again, but this time it is soft, gentle. Toby's hands fall down the thighs, resting on Sam's knees as he kisses the end of Sam, and pushes back on his feet.

*

_There is midnight blue on the canvass again, the beginning colour, and the ending colour, washing away what is left of the naked canvas._

Toby strokes Sam's hair, Sam's arms, Sam's stomach, Sam's thighs. They are nestled in each other, squashed on a couch that is much too small for even one grown man. Sam flicks off the light, rests his head on Toby's collarbone, his hair tickling the hollow of Toby's throat. 

Toby strokes Sam's hair, Sam's arms, Sam's stomach, Sam's thighs. Until the younger man drifts off to sleep, and the older man waits for the bright yellow to splash on the canvas, ruin it.


End file.
